Chapter 84: The Running for a Hero’s Death

Navan

The drizzle was thin as we trotted down the hill. Declan’s light blue rain jacket was a wise choice. We were in Navan, where the Blackwater meets the Boyne, talking like old friends. Declan was interesting, interested and enthusiastic; his company was enjoyable and the town lay ahead of us.

We cut through the cinema and down to the high street. The streets were dark and empty. The pub was warm and had a sports bar feel with purple lights and wide-spaced seats. There was a huge inflatable rugby player standing guard by the door, decked in the Irish colours. It had a carrot top head and a comedic grimace. It said Ryan’s Bar on its jersey.

Declan got a lager and I got a Murphy’s and we each got a bag of nuts. We’d not had anything to eat and there was no kitchen. The place was mostly empty so we took the best seats in front of the screen, next to a middle-aged man leaning on his elbows.

We gave out predictions for the game as we popped our nuts. Neither of us had any doubts that France would win. It was just a shame Ireland weren’t playing. They were the next day but I’d be on a plane by then.

Ireland had the team of a generation and I was hoping they’d lift the trophy. No one I’d met over there agreed though. It seemed everyone shared a grim prediction that somehow, despite having been dreadful, England would win it. There was no excitement about Irish prospects. England had an easy draw which only made the bitterness worse.

Their fears nearly came true. Ireland’s team of a generation lost in the next round and England missed the final by a single point. I’ll bet the Irish pubs the moment South Africa went through were as lively as if they’d won the whole thing themselves. Probably true in a lot of countries…

But we didn’t know any of that then. We ate our nuts and settled into rounds. France won 60-3 which wasn’t much of a spectacle. We found it more entertaining discussing the Irish economy which in Declan’s mind was going about as well as Italy’s rugby.

“You know there are forty planes flying out to the game in France tomorrow,” he said, returning to the rugby again, “There’s obviously money somewhere! You know, it costs a lot to get there and it’s not cheap once you’re there.”

When the game finished, we’d had a few pints and life was as good as it always is at that point. We went up the road to a livelier pub . Declan said the outside is usually full but it was a bit quiet that evening. Inside was busier. The ambient light, rich on the wood, mingled with the din of laughter. Some men played pool and someone roared something unintelligible.

We found a table and settled in. Declan leant forward and told me, with an air of a secret being divulged, about a cryptocurrency he was into. “Now I’m not normally into that whole thing,” he confided, “But when I saw the list of backers…You know it’s all the big names: Google, UCL, LSE… I thought if they’re involved…! And it’s cheap at the moment.”

It seems to have doubled since we met so I’m glad for him.

We went and sat outside, by now feeling pretty well-oiled. We swept into the smoking area, under an arch behind huge wooden doors that led to the street. Some men swayed cheerfully under rainbow bunting. Declan and I joined an old fella with fluffy white hair.

“I had a load of student debt when I was over in London,” Declan told me as he set his pint on the table, “So when I came back to Ireland I changed the spelling of my name and I thought I’d got away with it. You know, the debt was gone!”

“No way!” I laughed, “Great work.”

“Well it wasn’t in the end,” he replied, pushing his glasses back up his nose, “Turns out the debt collectors were after me. One day a Scottish guy called up my mum and said he was an old friend of Declan’s and could he have my number. She gave it to him, coz you know… you would, and that’s how they got me.”

The old fella with white fluffy hair was listening over his shoulder with a latent look on his face.

“Anyway, in the end I had to pay the whole debt three or four times over. Plus interest! And this was when rates were at 18%.”

“It makes a good story at least,” I said laughing.

“Plus, then I went back to Britain the other day to claim my pension over there, they said I only had three years. The change of name wrote the rest off!”

I was still laughing. He told the story well.

“If I’d known all that I probably wouldn’t have bothered…”

The old fella with fluffy hair cracked a smile. He’d lived in London too for a while and we chatted about the city as you do. “I used to live in Dalston in my day… ah it’s the place to be now…Shepherds Bush was rough…Now it’s quite well to do…”

He told us he’d been battling cancer for eight years and we said he looked in good nick. He did to be fair.

We went on chatting. Declan leant in, “You know apparently,” he revealed, another secret being divulged, “you can buy back the years you were in the UK and claim a pension on them. Costs £135 sterling per year. So anyone who was in England can do it and then you get a pension from the government.” He suggested the old man get on it.

I got up to go to the toilet, dodging swinging pool cues and ducking under beams to get there. It was a cold yellowish cube out the back and it smelt strongly of urine. The sound of trickling water echoed off the walls.

“Do you always go on your phone when you’re pissing?” Someone asked as I did my business.

“No…” I replied, “It’s a rarity I’d say.”

He looked at me squarely and said thoughtfully, “You have the eyes of someone who looks for knowledge.”

I said a hesitant thank you and we made our way back through the smoking area, to the table where everyone had congregated. My new friend was called Donal and his front two teeth had a matching chip. He introduced me to his mate Dylan who was eight minutes off turning 21. He looked a fair bit older.

“Oh no,” Dylan slurred as he pulled his phone out, “an hour and eight minutes!” He opened his mouth wide and showed me his fake teeth. “There’s no pain in it like,” he gawped as he prodded them, “they’re fake teeth like.”

Then he fished out a pouch of tobacco, took a big pinch and handed it to me and Declan. “Here take this,” he said happily, “I’ve got loads. I get it for free from my brother who works at the airport. At least, I pay 50 euros a month and get three 50g and three 30g! Take a load like.”

We drank on. We shouted and put our arms around each other, made jokes and not much sense, swilled drinks and Dylan downed one. I don’t remember much of what was said but we had a good time. It wasn’t late when we left but Declan and I weren’t finished. We rolled out under the arch and through the big wooden doors, past our mate with the fluffy hair and his oyster-eyed friends. We shook hands with them all then left into the drizzle.

We found a few more pubs. One had levels that rose up towards the back, in the middle of which was a man with a tight ponytail and skinny jeans. He sang a breathy song about love which was hardly the best music I’d seen in Ireland.

It got us talking animatedly about music as we left to go home. Declan loved Bowie though thought the best artist of the last 10 years was Kendrick Lamar, without a doubt. “When I first heard To Pimp a Butterfly,” he said astonished, “It completely blew my mind. I couldn’t believe it.”

We pushed open the door to his place and slumped ourselves at the kitchen table. We smoked Dylan’s tobacco, lighting up with long matches, and listened to music on the speaker I had in my rucksack.

“Listen to this,” Declan would say, as he put on Sinéad O’Connor. Her laser-like voice flipped from high to low impossibly, “That’s how good Sinéad was!”

Tired and drunk we finished with Fontaines D.C.. Grian’s growl cut above the music, clear as light. Listen to this line, Declan said, Never let a clock tell you what you got time for, It only goes around, goes around, goes around…he held his finger up as the line he liked best came, “This one!”

If we give ourselves to every breath, we’re all in the running for a hero’s death.

And with that, we went to bed.